Cant and Mood
by ebonbird
Summary: “I’m not in the mood,” she said and words matter. Follows 'Spend'.


The heft of Spock in her hand is a comfortable yet thrilling weight. He is very still as he kneels before her, his shoulders hunched, the slide of his laryngeal prominence as he swallows his only other movement. He's closed his eyes, his long lashes stark and lovely against his cheeks.

He's nearly electric in her palm. That explains the heat and the pressure in the hand holding him, but that doesn't explain the tingle in her free hand, the one curled up on her thigh.

She squeezes air but her handful of him leaps against the close confines of her skin. Shared anticipation. Psychic link. They're that much into it.

Her mouth floods with saliva. She swallows. "Touch me," she says thickly.

His mouth opens, a sharp exhalation. "I-I dare not." His voice has gone deep though it is still so soft.

She suspects, but she doesn't know. That sharp heavy scent in the air- him- intensifies. He's even hotter in her hand. He's tense all over, but she feels weightless, soft, except for where she holds him. Blood's beating there, that flowing through her hand and that flowing in his sex. It's like drums, drowning the edges of the bed away.

"You are not ready and I would attempt to penetrate you with my-" He eats his own words forced to by the tongue she plunges in his mouth. She's snatched his hand and brought it to her dripping lips. His long arms shudder and he's pushed her over as their mouths meet and meet and he rubs his fingers in and out of her, drawn into her depths even while trying to position himself inside of her. Their hands and fingers tangle at her entrance and they fight to let him in, guide him in.

"Yesyesyesyesyes" one of them is chanting, it could be him. He's in her, penetrating her, and the air Nyota could swallow before kissing him is a ball in her throat and even with her eyes closed she can see her face because he's pressed his sex smelling fingers on her skin and near her eye and over her cheek and in his mind she's beautiful, flushed purple under the melanin richness of her skin, her lips drawn back from her glorious teeth and he's so hungry and frightened and naked and he wants it and he doubts it when she opens her eyes and braces herself on her arms, bringing her hips up, thrust for thrust. It's so good that the cries this brings out of him make her laugh and swear and urge him on between declarations of love.

*

'Put me in the mood,' she said. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'Is this the moment where I ask you to define 'mood' and 'the mood' in this context?'

'Yes,' she replied.

He stripped, walked to his bed, knelt before her on it, and closed his eyes.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Utilizing all of my senses save sight.'

_Now that's cocky_, she thought. _That's confidence_. 'And yet, I'm not in the mood.'

He smirked.

Reflexively, she shucked off her uniform and stood before him in her bra and pants. He didn't peek.

'I don't think this is working.'

He pursed his lips. Which she took to mean either he didn't believe her, or his senses told him otherwise. Okay, maybe she was a little bit in the mood. Maybe her being in the mood was telling him to put her in it.

She joined him on the bed. Tilting her head one way, and then another, as she took down her hair and eyed the span of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, his slim hips, those delicious thighs. And of course, his sex, which always made her smile.

She tucked her fingers under her armpits, covering her breasts. She scratched herself. He inhaled, softly, stealthily, but still audibly.

'That's not me in the mood. But you are.' She neared enough to whisper that in his ear, her lips against his soft skin for only a syllable or two. 'Maybe you should touch me. Or yourself.'

His eyebrow lifted and she made a decision, reaching for him without a second thought.

And then all question of mood was moot because someone was wailing and sobbing yes, and oh, and please, and God, and Spock, oh, I'm coming, Thank you and many other things Nyota hoped she would forget about and Spock hadn't heard.

But, as they share warm towels, Spock appears thoughtful. His movements, as he cleanses his fingers, are measured.

"What is it?"

He looks away from her, drawing the towel across his lean belly. "Your speech, during your climax." He redacts his phrase, and threads his fingers through the hair at her temple. "Our climax. You swore- utilized profanity. In Standard but not only in Standard."

"Oh. I didn't mean it."

"But you did. You were sincere. I could tell through our link."

His fingers skate past the contact points. He drops the towel in the bowl. "I respect as I was performing the action, I was the action, but, that is not a term of endearment in common use. Is it?"

"I'm sorry, Spock. I must have been out of my mind."

"I have noticed that your thoughts are particularly calm when I have brought you to orgasm. This bears further analysis."

"I don't know if it does. I'm sorry for offending you."

"I am not offended." He tilts his head, studying her features and presses his lips against hers in a kiss. "I am perplexed, because I know of your regard for me. And yet."

She hugs him. "I don't know what to say."

He closes the embrace. "Yes. And sometimes you do not know what you say. Do not fear. I remain, and anticipate that I will remain, in the mood."

After a moment she says, "I hear priapism is painful."

"You are embarrassed."

"Yes."

He strokes her back. "Do not be. It appears that in this matter, I have no shame." She hears the grin in his voice. When she reaches up her hand to check- because there is no way she is looking him in the face- his lips spread wider beneath her fingers and he pulls her even closer.


End file.
